A Series of Unfortunate Events
by Serendipity1
Summary: What will be a collection of humorous tales, much like Aesop's fables. Only funny, and with no morals. Now up: Karmic backlash hits as Leo gets payback.
1. Some Minor Confusion

**Title**: Some Minor Confusion  
**Author: **Serendipity  
**Rating**: PG  
**Word Count**: 339  
**Notes: **Those of you who read Terry Pratchett will understand the joke in this one, and shamelessly, I just had to make it. It's the equivalent of a bad pun.

* * *

Death wasn't as awful as it was touted as, though few things really ever were, and since all those who talked about the horror of death had obviously never died, their opinions weren't really to be counted on. Generally it was what came _before_ death that was painful. Dying itself came as something of a relief. The soul of Splinter looked around the faintly misty wreckage of his old home and felt as though he should mourn. He felt strangely detached from it, though, as if it was a grainy old movie. 

People would usually expect a sense of loss or grief, perhaps of futility when coping with one's own death. Instead, there was an overall feeling of 'well, what happens now?' The afterlife seemed to be poorly organized. One would hope there would be something like a mystical brochure, a travel guide, or at least someone hanging about to usher the souls of the departed from this world to the next. He wondered just what he'd expected, but then again, he hadn't put too much thought into what actually happened post-mortem.

Something light rustled past his foot, something like a thin edge of a napkin brushed his ankle. He glanced down and the sense of pervading strangeness grew. There was what appeared to be the delicate skeleton of a rat, standing upright and robed in black. Rob-_ed_, actually, in the Old Testament pronunciation of the word. In its paws, it clutched something that looked eerily like the blade of a scythe, and its eyes glowed blue in the shadows of the sewers.

**S****QUEAK**, it said, its voice echoing hollowly. It sounded as puzzled as a skeleton rat could sound, as if something was completely off in this equation.

Splinter stared at it.

**S****QUEAK?**

"I'm afraid I can not understand you," Splinter said, realizing some kind of reply was expected of him. And then a taller, more humanoid figure stepped from the shadows.

**AH**, said a voice like thunder through empty caves, **I BELIEVE** **THAT ONE WOULD BE MINE.**


	2. An Intervention, of Sorts

**Title**: An Intervention, of Sorts  
**Author: **Serendipity  
**Rating**: PG  
**Word Count**: 1,362  
**Notes: **This meant to follow directly after 'Misadventures', and is part of a series of fragments that will be shown in this collection.

* * *

His head hurt, his stomach was upset, and his mouth felt like it was made out of sandpaper and tasted like old leather. His alarm clock hadn't been put on. It actually looked unplugged, and he felt a moment's irritation at the inconvenience, because then he'd have to plug it in and reprogram it all over again. Leonardo rolled over and stared at the ceiling as if alone held the answers to his questions, mainly the one about how he got from being in battle to being in bed with his alarm clock unplugged and the sullen pains of bruising on his shoulder. Then, like a bolt from the blue, a horrendous flood of nightmarish memories came rushing back, flickering in his brain like the world's most humiliating home movie.

"Oh _god_," he moaned into his pillow in utter misery, "Asshole penalty? Please tell me it was a fever dream and I didn't say that. I didn't say that in front of Master Splinter." It wasn't usually his style to pretend something that actually happened was really some kind of feverish delusion, but in this case, he wanted to try his hardest to make that believable. It was clearly the logical thing to do. He seriously considered staying in bed that morning and pretending to be under the influence of some kind of horrible sickness. This, of course, would hold as much water as cheesecloth and Leonardo knew that it would be more dignified to actually come out of his room on his own two feet as opposed to being dragged bodily _from_ it by his own three brothers. This was not much of a comfort, however.

Eventually, he hauled himself out of the fog of embarrassment and managed to make it to the door. He opened it, convinced in his ability to shrug off any witty remark he was just sure would await him the instant he stepped out of the room, for he had two brothers who believed they were God's gift to humor, and one who could launch attacks of devastatingly accurate wit when the mood struck him. However, Leonardo was completely secure in his dignity and his level-headedness, and his ability to let all comments pass like water off of a duck's back, for he was a ninja and he had learned the Way of Patience. Oh, yes.

The door opened and he was greeted with silence.

This was not the sort of lurking silence which meant that there were people below saving their comments because of the sobering presence of Master Splinter. It was the silence that indicated that no one was there.

He opened the door even wider, and met with an astounding amount of nothing. And then, more silence. Followed by scattered areas of nothing, with the promise of yet more silence to come.

Clearly, the family had vacated the premises. He didn't know if he should be feeling grateful for the reprieve, or leery, since sooner or later they had to come home. And when they came home, he thought grimly, the sibling teasing equivalent of Armageddon would hit. If he remembered last night correctly, that drug episode was worth at least five months of harassment, and Raphael was a firm believer in squeezing every last ounce of misery out of a mistake or misadventure. This would require the ultimate in beverage pick-me-ups: jasmine tea. Yes, the calming properties of jasmine tea would be useful here. Then he realized that he was actually thinking of tea in the strange herbal remedy terms that the TV applied to various plants, and feared for his sanity.

He was a little surprised by the lack of notes on the stairs or on the table. The last time he'd been drugged…which had actually been quite worryingly recent, really, he'd suffered from short-term amnesia to the point of sheer ridiculousness, and asked the same questions repeatedly until is brothers had formed some kind of mutual front of silence. He, thankfully, had no recollection of that event, but for the next few days he'd had Mikey asking if he needed someone to repeat everything five times so it could sink in. Then there were the post-it notes around the house with helpful tips on how to get through the day.

He'd studiously ignored them, of course.

But no. Still no sight of anything that would indicate that anything happened last night.

He had been just about ready to pass off the whole memory as drug-induced hallucinations, which happened sometimes and were understandable, when he passed by Master Splinter's room and heard the definite sounds of his brothers engaged conversation. Being respectful of privacy, he was about to pass by and let them have whatever talk they needed with Splinter, when he caught the tail end of what they were saying.

"…about Leo's drug problem."

The sense of peace and equilibrium, albeit slightly laced with paranoia, that he'd been occupying since he'd left the room screeched to a halt. It would have made a humorous record-squealing noise, had it been actually audible. The words 'drug problem' danced in the air like evil little fairies, and Leonardo felt he had no choice but to listen at the door. Some suicidal urge compelled him to listen in, although all other mental facilities were ringing klaxons and telling him that any further involvement in this matter would be a mistake. 'Leo's drug problem', his mind mouthed slowly at him, 'Leo's. Drug. Problem.'

Obviously someone was mistaken.

The lights in the dojo were off, leaving only the eerie glow of Donny's computers and the dim lighting from the kitchen to illuminate the main area. The lights were on in Master Splinter's room, and he could make out the vague silhouette of his brothers kneeling on the ground in front of him

"I'm sure you've been thinking about the problem at hand as well, Master," Donatello was saying in an earnest, slightly worried tone, "At first, we were inclined to think of it as a series of strange coincidences, but…"

"But this is like the seventh time, not counting when that Ultimate Ninja guy shot him with a dart in the Battle Nexus…and that's kind of suspicious, too. I mean, a dart? When he could have just taken him out at any time when Leo _wasn't_ fighting? Weird-city, you know what I mean? I think that was totally rigged somehow," Michelangelo said from behind the shoji screen door.

"The thing is, we're pretty sure it's statistically improbable to be the victim of so many attempted druggings, Master Splinter. It's like being hit by lightning five times in a single year. It looks awfully strange. We believe that Leonardo has been arranging his own drug attacks. It's strange, but…"

"Well, he certainly ain't gonna get his fix from the Purple Dragon dealers. Probably figured it was the only way he'd get 'em," That was Raphael, who sounded somewhat odd, like he had a throat problem.

"It was nutmeg this time, Master," said Donatello grimly, "He's obviously getting desperate."

"So, we're thinking of having an intervention. You know, one of those family things where they get the junkie and tie him up and refuse to let him leave the house until he stops being all drug-obsessed. We have the chair and everything waiting," Michelangelo said, revealing their evil scheme, "And since we have your full permission and everything, we think we should get started right away."

At this point, Leonardo had heard more than enough. He slid the door open, intent on speaking his side of the story and revealing the truth, proving his innocence and drug-free state once and for all.

Inside the room, kneeling on the floor, were his three brothers, who appeared to be straining a lot of muscles to keep from laughing. In the place of Splinter's silhouette was an artfully arranged pile composed of two throw cushions, a mop, and some cleverly wrapped towels. Also, a banner hung from the ceiling. It read: 'Sucker'.

"Morning, Leo," Michelangelo said cheerfully, "Had time to raid the spice cabinet yet?"

Leonardo wondered if it was too late to retire to his room for some hour-long katas.


	3. Buzzword Bingo

**Title**: Buzzword Bingo  
**Author: **Serendipity  
**Rating**: PG  
**Word Count**:  
**Notes: **Does anyone feel like the honorable ninja lectures can get a little rehashed? Apparently Michelangelo does, too.

* * *

"…And as ninja, we must exercise caution and remain diligent in our duties to-" 

"BINGO!"

Leonardo cut off mid-lecture and stared at Michelangelo, who was scribbling something on what looked like a small square of cardboard he'd pulled out from his belt. Raphael and Donatello gave good-natured groans and scrutinized their own cardboard sheets.

"Aw man, and I thought I was gonna get it for sure with that 'caution' line on the fourth row," Raph said, tucking his bingo sheet into his own belt. "I didn't know any better I'd say you rigged it, Mikey. I mean, he hasn't said anything about bushido today, which is weird."

"I almost got it, but he didn't say 'hothead', either. That was kind of disappointing, really, because I'd have had a two-way Bingo if he'd done it. I think we all filled out 'honor', though," Donatello said. "That one he used at the breakfast table in reference to virtual Pong, and then later he said it again, in case we hadn't heard him the first time. After that, he graciously repeated himself three times."

"Dude, I should make bonus scores for triple quotage," Michelangelo grinned, "Remind me to add it to my notes."

"What, may I ask, are you doing?" Leonardo asked through his teeth.

Michelangelo looked at him as if he'd asked a very elementary question. "Buzzword Bingo, of course." His other brothers grinned behind him in anticipation of Leonardo possibly flipping out. This was always entertaining when it happened, for it happened so very seldom.

"Buzzword Bingo," Leonardo replied with sort of a distant and cold fascination.

"Yeah," Michelangelo said nonchalantly, "It's a sort of game. You see, I write down these words that a given person- that's you, Leo, would repeat or just say a lot throughout the day, and I put 'em all down on Bingo sheets. Then we play Bingo with the sheets by crossing out the words when you say them. Like here, I got all five of mine out: 'Honor, Caution, Training, Discipline, and Shell." Shell's an easy one, though, everyone got shell. And training? Dude, we got training right off the bat. I should take training off. It's just so not fair. It's all you ever say anymore."

Leonardo looked completely blank. This was a worrying sign. It meant that he was taking some time to fully process the enormity of the jackassery that was unfolding before him, and sooner or later, it would all hit his brain. Then, there would be punishment. Michelangelo did not support punishment in any form.

"You may be wondering," he started.

"I wasn't."

"_You may be wondering _at how such an ingenious and creative idea was formed. It's totally awesome, really, mainly because it was me who did it. See, I couldn't help but notice that a lot of the same words get repeated over and over each day. I mean, it's like this circle of life with word recyclement, especially when you and Master Splinter go all bushido Path of the Ninja and talk like a haiku."

"_Really_," Leonardo said grimly.

"Yeah, I pretty much tune 'em out now," Raphael added.

Michelangelo held out his hands to indicate their distress. "So, how to keep our attention engaged? Especially Raph's attention, because that wanders like crazy. I was thinking of telling Donny to give you guys, like, a thesaurus, but that'd be rude. So I came up with this awesome game instead. And really, Leo, you're totally the only person it'd work on. Raphael kind of expresses himself in, like, animal noises and wordless grunts, so that'd be hard. And Donny? Who even knows what he's talking about most of the time? As for me, well, I have so many expressions and creative sayings it's kind of hard to track."

"And he'd make up new slang just to spite us," muttered Donatello.

"But you?" Michelangelo said, ignoring the blasphemy, "You're perfect. You're so solid and dependable and predictable. Really, it's obvious that you're the only real choice for this thing. I mean, you do it so well. It's amazing."

"I was impressed," Raphael volunteered with a smirk.

"You guys are HOPELESS!" Leonardo cried out in exasperation.

"BINGO!"

"BINGO!"

"Triple Bingo, dudes. Read 'em and weep."

"I'm going to go practice my katas," Leonardo snarled, and stormed off to his Fortress of Solemnity.


	4. From an Anonymous Source

**Title**: From an Anonymous Source  
**Author: **Serendipity  
**Rating**: T  
**Word Count**:  
**Notes: **This doesn't really count as a continuation of the plot after 'Misadventures', but it is spawned from it: Michelangelo has composed a helpful pamphlet about Asshole Penalties.

* * *

**Preface**: If you are the normal American, you have never heard of an Asshole Penalty. Unless, of course, you're a member of the Foot, in which case it's pretty much well known. However, this pamphlet is not for the Foot, it is for the poor, innocent people who suffer from Asshole Penalty Splash Damage Syndrome, more commonly known as APSD, or for those who may have a problem and are as of yet unable to admit it. But _what_, you must be asking, is an Asshole Penalty? 

Don't make the mistake of taking it lightly, because it's a very serious condition! An Asshole Penalty is strongly linked to the phenomenon that is karma, and it's defined as the consequences of a jerk action going way above and beyond what the standard effect should be. Like, for example, a person stealing a skateboard falls off of it while on a bridge, lands on a garbage track, and gets dumped in a landfill. Mondo bizarro, and a great way to wreck your day.

**What Should I Do?**

Let's say you have made the discovery that you are suffering from Asshole Penalty! What do you do? The answer is simple: be less of an asshole. Save kittens from trees. Help old people cross the street. And if your name is Raph, hide in your room and stay there and save the rest of us from having to look at you or talk to you, because that's just how bad you are! And make sure to will all of your stuff to your local Mikey.

**Innocent Bystanders**

If you are not a chronic asshole, as far as you know, and you still find yourself suffering from events that are far and beyond what consequences SHOULD be, you might be suffering from APSD. Some assholes engage in such crazy events of utter assholery that the AP is huge, and hundreds of innocent people who just happen to be close by can be caught up in the surging tsunami of that person's karma. If it's at all possible, it's good to cut off all ties with the asshole until he joins Assholes Anonymous and decides to turn to the side of Good. Unless if his name is Raph, who is filed under H for Hopeless and has the rare A chromosome, which ties being an asshole into his DNA. FLEE FROM THIS TURTLE. RUN, BEFORE THE WRATH OF GOD HITS HIM.

RUN.

**An Interview With An Expert**

People who suffer from Asshole Penalties aren't really the best people to ask questions to, since they usually snap and bite off your head and throw bike grease at you, which is pretty rude. So, in the interest of science, we got the next best thing: a victim of secondhand AP, this awesome scientist who we will call D, in the interest of his protection.

**M**: So, D, do you think that the whole Asshole Penalty stuff has impacted your life?

**D**: Oh, yes. Just the other day, went to the grocery store with me and kicked a vending machine because it ate his quarters. Then his foot went through the plastic and we had to pry it out with Crisco. Actually, that was pretty funny.

**M**: Ha ha, it sounds awesome! Any APSD in play there?

**D**: Well, now that you mention it, the vending machine did fall over after we yanked his foot out, and landed on me. I managed to push it away, but that was hazardous. Thirteen people a year are killed by vending machines falling on them, you know.

**M**: No, I didn't. So, the asshole penalty showered its splash damage on you and NEARLY KILLED YOU.

**D**: I'm traumatized.

**M**: _As you should be_. Incidentally, was this asshole named Raph?

**D**: I think I can't mention the name.

**M**: Of course not.

**In Closing**

We hope that you found this pamphlet helpful and informative, and that you're leaving now knowing more about the sad problem that Asshole Penalties represent. For all those of you who have now been diagnosed, go and seek help immediately, for the good of your friends and family! For those of you who are victims of Raph Abuse, please call our toll-free hotline for immediate support. And Raph, if you are reading this, may GOD have mercy on your SOUL.

A candlelight vigil will be held on the eighteenth of June for all the brave martyrs who will probably have died for this cause, once this pamphlet is spread around.

Bring pizza.


	5. Rooftop Gaming

**Title**: Rooftop Gaming

**Author: **Serendipity  
**Rating**: PG  
**Word Count**: 328  
**Notes: **This meant to follow directly after 'Misadventures' and 'An Intervention, of Sorts', and is part of a series of fragments that will be shown in this collection.

* * *

It was a promising night to be aboveground on a training stint. First, the weather was nice enough: a dusky-hot mid-August evening, with the humidity that heralded an incoming thunderstorm, though not necessarily in anything close to a few hours or so. The night sky was moonless and virtually starless, lending an overall feeling of gloom to the cheaper neighborhood and their dim streetlights. The general atmosphere suggested that it was the perfect evening for ninjas, which sadly also meant it was a perfect evening for crime, (And good deeds as well, let's be honest, but crime was their focus.)

Leonardo was pleased that the weather seemed to have arranged itself favorably, mainly because he'd go absolutely stir crazy if he had to stay trapped inside the lair for one second longer, listening to horrible tales of the embarrassing things he did under the influence and being forced to drink more of Mikey's awful eggnog. But this was training. Training was important. Training was nearly sacred. None of them would actually pull something during the deeply solemn occasion of training.

After scoping out the street below, he turned to face his brothers, who were standing there, looking worryingly meek and docile. Realizing this as the signal of the calm before the storm, he attempted to cut off any misbehavior before it began.

"Alright," he said grimly, "I haven't noticed anything just yet, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't be cautious."

Michelangelo raised his hand and looked like a grade school child with an important question for Teacher.

Knowing he would bitterly regret his decision, Leonardo gave him a nod that indicated that he would briefly tolerate his foolishness.

"Well, I was just wondering," Michelangelo said, a phrase to strike terror in the hearts of his brothers. "Since this is obviously, like, an important mission and all, why don't we roll initiative?"

Leonardo thought he'd heard him wrong. "I'm sorry?"

"You know. Roll initiative," Michelangelo said as if it was a matter of no importance and something they did every day.

"Will _Control _Initiative," Donatello with every ounce of dramatic import he could muster.

"Gotta do it," Raphael said, joining in with reckless and malevolent abandon.

Leonardo stared at all of them icily and decided the best strategy here was completely ignore anything going on. He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if speaking to a pack of small children. "We're going to head down this neighborhood for a while, mainly staying on the rooftops, and after that we'll begin a series of exercises…"

"I'll start," Michelangelo pulled a mangled cardboard thing from his belt. This proved to be a collapsible D20 the size of his fist, and he tossed it in the air once before rolling. It landed on three, and he collapsed in a theatrical fit of groans. "Aw, _man_!"

"Bad luck, Mikey," Raphael said with a grin, "Looks like you get to go off playing in traffic today."

"Dude," Michelangelo pleaded, "Donny. You gotta roll low, man! Don't leave me running all crazy-like into New York traffic all alone! The dice compels me, dude!"

"And then, we'll practice the art of silence," Leonardo grated on, painfully aware that he was not getting anyone's full attention.

Meanwhile, Donatello rolled the dice and gave a triumphant thumbs-up as it landed on twelve. He was secure in his impulse-control. Michelangelo groaned piteously at this rotten turn of luck, but cheered up immensely as Raphael rolled a one. "CRITICAL FAILURE!" he screamed in his joy, "You FAIL, Raphie-boy! Join me as roadkill!"

"Oh god, I'm gonna puke," Raphael said in a very unconvincingly sullen tone. "Hey, Leo! YOUR turn. Come on, roll your famous fortune-telling die!"

"Yeah, seriously. It's only fair," agreed Michelangelo.

"And we can help you with any questions you might have," Donatello added in a low, pleasant voice, "It's a complicated and intricate ritual, but we feel you are up to the task."

Leonardo came to the sudden realization that he would have to kill all of them and dispose of their bodies right then and there, or his tormented soul would never find true peace. "Okay, it's obvious that you guys are so not taking this seriously," he started, his voice rising to the slightly louder Lecture Tone.

"Leo," Donatello reprimanded with the severity of a schoolteacher. "You shouldn't say that. Will Control Initiative is Serious Business."

"Yeah. I mean, like, without it, we'd totally have no will control or common sense or anything, man. What's with you, you pointed this whole thing out just last night! We've seen the error of our ways!" Michelangelo said.

"Hey, he's just mad 'cause we're using his own rules against him," Raphael said. "Does he get a penalty for that?"

"ASSHOLE PENALTY, Leo!" Michelangelo cheered, "You FAIL!"

At that point, the three brothers previously known to everyone as Michelangelo, Donatello, and Raphael, who had temporarily taken up the honorable mantles of Larry, Curly, and Moe all looked at each other before breaking up into full-blown hilarity.

Leonardo decided that now was the time for a strategic retreat followed by long, fruitful plotting sessions over his sandalwood incense. He would strike later, and strike fiercely! His time would come! And other noble statements along those lines. He gave them all a baleful look before taking off into the gloomy refuge of the shadows. He accomplished this by going down a nearby fire escape.

"Looks like he really did fail his will save!" Michelangelo called from the roof, "He doesn't even have the _will_ to go on!" Obviously he thought this was stupendously witty.

A shuriken tore out from the darkness, destroying the bloated D20. At that point they all decided to shut up and go for ice cream.


	6. Wardrobe Malfunction

**Title:** Wardrobe Malfunction  
**Author:** Serendipity  
**Rating:** T  
**Word Count:** 1,678  
**Notes: **Playing around with the concept of Leonardo being completely retarded when it comes to domestic skills.

**

* * *

**

"What the hell is _this_?" Raphael yelled at the thing in his hand. It said nothing in its own defense, for it was but a lifeless piece of cloth. In fact, it was his ninja mask. Of course, it wasn't really recognizable as such to begin with, as some horrendous and unfortunate turn of events had bleached it to a dull and faded pinkish-grey. It was so light it might not have even been a color at all.

Leonardo, who had been sitting in an armchair looking with fixed purpose at a book in his hands, contrived to find it even more interesting. He hadn't turned any pages for an hour. He happened to not be wearing his mask.

With signs of psychic powers, Raphael turned his head to glare suspiciously at Leonardo. He raised the bandanna like it was a weapon he could hurl at him at any moment. "Leo. Wasn't it your turn to do the laundry today?"

A distinct lack of response as Leonardo focused sheepishly on his reading material.

Not to be deterred in his rage, Raphael went up and yanked the book away. "Leo, what the almighty HELL did you do to the masks? Wash them in acid?"

"No," Leonardo said with the inner peace and tranquility of someone trying really hard to cover his mistakes at laundry.

"NO?"

"Well, technically, that would be correct," Donatello said from directly behind him, "Bleach is actually a strong base." He was looking at Leonardo with a mixture of woeful betrayal and amusement. "You mixed up the detergent bottle with the bleach bottle? How is that even possible? I mean, it specifically states the contents on the label!"

"Look, it was sitting right next to the washer with the laundry. For all I knew, it was detergent," he said defensively, "The containers all look the same anyway. Why do we even have bleach if we're not supposed to use it, anyway?"

"It's a cleaning product," offered Donatello. "We clean the kitchen counters with it."

"You mean _I_ clean the counters with it," said Michelangelo, who had just appeared on scene with his particularly gruesome mask, which had been bleached away to a kind of dirty yellow, "Nice going, Leo. Priceless trademark ninja masks from the Ancient One. Let's just spill some chemicals on them! Why didn't you get out the knives and shred them while you were at it? Oh, and nice pink mask, Raph."

Raphael growled.

"Look," said Leonardo, obviously trying to salvage the situation before it all degenerated into a full-scale sibling battlefield, "Can't we just, I don't know, dye them or something? Mikey, you made that weird costume last year and you said you had fabric dye in your room."

"Uh, yeah, but…"

"Good! Problem solved," Leonardo said, pleased to have a solution to the whole laundry problem.

"Well, I'd totally love to dye 'em, dudes, but there's one little problem."

"Mikey, your World of Warcraft championship can wait. This is important. We can't go running around wearing these things," said Donatello, "I mean, come on. For once in your life can you not complain about your work?"

"Well, the WOW Triathlon has been going on for, like, months and I'm up for the top winner slot in the dance contest, but that's not the big problem. The big problem is much, um, bigger," said Michelangelo, "See, there's like this minor flaw in this devious scheme…"

"Just. _Do it_," Raphael ordered menacingly. The others nodded firmly, providing a united front against the evident slacking of Michelangelo. They would not, could not appear in public wearing vintage grunge ninja masks, and the parental disapproval of Master Splinter would know no bounds.

"Well, fiiine," Michelangelo said, drawing out the word with extreme sarcasm. "Don't blame me if you don't like it."

And so it came to pass that Michelangelo set up his evil fabric-dying laboratory in the confines of his bedroom, and spent a really long time adding color to their only laundry.

"EET EES DONE!" he yelled triumphantly after three hours of nonstop labor, "SHE IS FINISHED! IT'S ALIIIIIIIVE!" He convulsed in maniacal laughter at the top of the stairs, holding the masks up with a flourish.

Donatello took his. "Um. What did you do to them? They're all…blotchy."

"Oh, please. Don't insult my genius," Michelangelo said. "Actually, it's really just a temporary fix. The dye's, um, not as good as it could be. You'll have to wait for me to get some more."

This seemed like a reasonable explanation to everyone, so they took their masks and put them on and somehow managed to avoid having Master Splinter see their masks up close by staying at least four feet from him at all times. This started to get really difficult around dinner time, when they all decided on the spur of the moment that they really weren't hungry at all, thank you very much, they'd had too many microwavable tamales for lunch and they were all suffering from nausea. Master Splinter offered them a horrible green tea and they all sat in stagnation on the couch for quite a while until Leonardo leapt to his feet and decided that they desperately needed to do a training run that evening to master the Art of Speedy Retreat. This was well received by all.

Of course, once they managed to hit street level they looked around for a pizza place. The whole ninja will control and self-deprivation thing was all well and good in theory, but the basic consensus was that pizza won over ninja discipline any time.

"_Sometimes_," Leonardo said, obviously a spoilsport.

The others ignored him in favor of dinner. This was being held on top of some electronics building near the local pizzeria, with the level of table etiquette that was usually present at their meals.

"Seriously, guys. Don't you want to get any actual training while we're up here?"

"Training? Oh, let's see," Donatello said, putting his slice of pizza down on his knee as he spoke, "At six o' clock this morning, we all performed our morning exercises, followed by a three-hour practice in ninjitsu, followed by one hour of sparring. Then, we all ate something and rested. Following that brief period of rest, we had weapons practice against Master Splinter, then we had weapons practice amongst ourselves, and afterwards we all did that one activity with the straw and the bubblegum."

"About that?" Raphael interrupted, "What the hell. All I gotta say."

"And after that we did our katas and meditated. Sure we must be desperate for more training, we performed more exercises and Master Splinter introduced us to a new technique. My point here, Leo, is that if that wasn't enough training for one day, we're completely hopeless cases at being ninjas and should give up right now."

"I Support This Message," Michelangelo said, inserting the capitalized letters with a note of supreme self-importance.

"Fine, then," Leonardo shrugged, "We won't fight."

At that moment they fell victim to Foot Ninja Plan of Engagement Number 65: the Shark Circle. Seemingly defying the laws of physics and most likely equipped with theatrical equipment, the Foot ninja squad rose gracefully from every corner of the building, neatly hemming them in. Karai pushed through them to face the turtles and drew her sword with grim purpose. This was, of course, something that happened a good deal and so the novelty was quite taken away.

"You will fight me!" Karai announced, intent on ruining their dinner plans.

Michelangelo, Donatello, and Raphael turned as a whole and gave Leonardo a look that implied that he was the cause of all their problems.

"Look, can you try to work yourselves around our schedule?" Michelangelo asked, "We've already voted and it's been decided that tonight is no fighting night."

This went over like a lead balloon, of course, for Karai had no part in democracy and was entirely autocratical. The charge was led, and everyone engaged themselves in the highly exciting game of Toss The Ninjas Off The Roof. The equivalents of red shirts were cut down. Minor cuts and abrasions were sustained. Pizza was trampled overfoot, to much dismay. A storm cloud rolled over and started pouring rain on everyone, but this mainly went unnoticed and was helpful for the ambience for a while. That is, until Leonardo turned and saw Raphael bleeding profusely from what looked like a head wound.

"Raph!" he cried, full of brotherly concern, "What happened to your head?"

"_My_ head?" Raphael asked, staring at him, "You're the one who's leaking blue!"

"Oh my god, my mask! It's running!" Donatello held up an obviously purple hand.

The brotherly Triad of Blame focused on Michelangelo, who stood there and dripped orange. "Hey!" he said defensively, "I told you that I didn't have any good dye for this. Don't blame it all on me! You're the impatient ones! You're the ones so in a hurry to get your stuff done! I was totally cool with my creamsicle look, but you had to go and rush me!"

At this point the remaining Foot seemed to be at a loss.

"What did you use?" Leonardo asked through gritted teeth.

"Well, I kind of used my Crayola markers. I went through, like, three sets. No, make that four sets. The last one was Rose Art, though. That's why the color didn't really, y'know, match in places."

They stared at him in unadulterated horror.

"Hey, no way was I going to waste my copic markers on this," he said.

"You _colored_ on my mask?" Raphael raged.

"Well, yeah. I mean, it's colored, right? It's still ink! You guys didn't complain until the water hit, anyway! Anyway, it's not my fault that Leo totally SUCKS at laundry, okay? Go yell at him!"

Karai sighed. "This fight is now officially not worth my time," she said, and led the Foot clan away with a sense of the whole bushido ninja tension-fraught mood being utterly ruined. Behind her, the epic-scale argument about bleach and its uses on ninja masks escalated.


	7. Karma Comes Around

**Title:** Karma Comes Around  
**Author:** Serendipity  
**Rating:** T  
**Word Count: **996  
**Notes: **The completion of the scenes following 'Misadventures': Leonardo gets some of his own back in his own particular...what's the word? Oh, yes. Idiom.

* * *

The evening was quiet. (In this case, the typical follow-up sentence would be 'too quiet'. However, it was not, as quiet seemed to be the preferred noise setting for everyone at that point in time.) Everyone was busily avoiding Leonardo, who was sitting at the kitchen table with an empty teacup in front of him and that look of severe focus that usually only came about during meditation. He seemed to be ignoring his surroundings completely, aside from the occasion when Michelangelo attempted to offer him more eggnog. Leonardo had impaled him on a full-out Death Look. His deathly gazes were rare, but always impressive enough to make them shut up. Or, at least they hadn't spoken directly _to_ him. They'd simply had a lengthy conversation on the couch in the entertainment section, within his earshot, about Raphael's amazing capabilities of destroying kitchen appliances with his mind. Eventually, this too came to an end as someone hooked up the game cube. 

Meanwhile, Leonardo was feeling the sense of calm detachment that came with a well thought-out mission plan. He had plotted mercilessly throughout the whole evening. His brothers would meet their most well-deserved fate.

Finally, the doors swished open, and Master Splinter stepped through them, back from his arcane and unexplained trip to some unknown location. It most likely involved either ninjitsu or the lost season of Hearts In Passion, his new soap.

That was the moment when Raphael, Michelangelo, and Donatello had a feeling like someone had walked across their grave. Leonardo, who had been unmovingly and absolutely silent that whole evening, stood up and smiled. It was not a very nice smile, and it hearkened horrible things to come.

"Ah, my sons," Master Splinter said, sounding pleased to be home, "How was your day?"

"It was fine," Leonardo said, smoothly cutting anyone off before they could speak, "But uneventful. In fact," he said mildly, "We were all about to prepare for a training session. We went out previously this evening, but unfortunately didn't get much done. Isn't that right?" he asked, not even looking at the others on the couch.

Their demise was now evident. Leonardo was going to slaughter them in full view of Master Splinter. Well, obviously not kill, but anything just short of that was probably fair game. There was no way out of the incoming bloodbath, that was for sure. Leonardo had mentioned training to Master Splinter, who fully supported any honing of their ninjitsu skills, and if they attempted to back out, Leonardo would berate them with the approval and stern fatherly lectures of Master Splinter. It was ingenious. The bastard!

"Uh...yeah. We, I guess," Michelangelo said nervously. Donatello and Raphael said nothing. They were busy looking for the nearest and most accessible exit. None presented itself.

"Very good," Master Splinter said, and their doom was sealed.

Leonardo proceeded to the dojo area of their main room. He unsheathed one of his katana and examined it. "You know, I was thinking we could start with just full contact sparring with no weapons. Following that, I think we should go through weapons practice: first one on one, followed by all of you attacking me as a group."

The sheer brass nerve of that statement was enough to make Raphael want to kick his head in. "Fine," he said, accepting the challenge of an irate Leo.

"Oh, god," Michelangelo groaned, "Apocalypse starts now."

To be fair, they all tried their hardest, to misuse a phrase used by cheery-faced kindergarten teachers. They launched a full frontal assault with tactics, and skill, and a very violent Raphael. Apparently all of that was simply no match for Leonardo when he was completely focused and determined on paying back a huge grievance, because what followed was a beatdown the like of which was never seen outside of an epic battle with Shredder.

Weapons flew through the air, mainly because they were being so rapidly disarmed. There were screams of agony, or at least cries of 'ow!' and 'hey!' and 'CHRIST, Leo!' That last one was mainly blurted by Raphael and always got him a bonified Glare of Parental Disapproval. Leonardo was an unstoppable cyclone of ninja whoopass, and yea, did he fall upon them like the wrath of a very displeased god. He fought them one-on-one, making sure every defeat had a nice, personal touch, and then had them all come at him at once.

Meanwhile, he didn't change expression at all. It stayed entirely the same: a somewhat grim, determined look that denoted great concentration in the Art of Ninjitsu. It was his teacher's pet look, and it always managed to drive Raphael nuts. Especially since, with every disarming and defeat, he gave them all helpful suggestions in a firm and patient and pointedly non-smug tone, adding a nice element of psychological torture to the whole depressing affair. There was no pity. There was only Leo and his moving fists of vengeance.

When it was all done, they lay prostrate on the floor, groaning in misery and pain, with no intention of moving for a while.

Michelangelo writhed in affected death throes. "Oh, man! My fingernails hurt! Are you hearing this? My fingernails are in pain! Serious pain! That's not saying nothing else is, because my whole body is sore, but my fingernails, guys!"

"Shut up," groaned Raphael from his position on the ground, "My head hurts too much to listen to this."

"Must...get...liniment!" Donatello grasped at the air like a dying man.

Leonardo performed one completely perfect and polite bow to his fallen opponents and went to gloat in his room over his victory with a CD of classical Japanese melodies. His task had been completed, and under the Code of Brotherly Payback, Rule 23, none of this would be brought up ever again or the perpetrator would face the pain of the united front of brotherly torment. All was well with the world.

Practice was over, and it had been served cold.


End file.
